The Dangers of Sunday Painting

Afternoon. Time for a beer on the verandah of my favourite pub. Though to be honest you can scarce call the Tivoli a pub. Very swanky, upmarket and the place to be seen. I don't really fit there but the view of the sunset is pretty much unparalleled on this part of the beach front. The verandah is as usual quite crowded with a nice mix of locals and tourists.

The staff know me fairly well here. Regular visits and generous tips ensure that even on reasonably busy evenings a table with a view can be found for me.

I am, as usual alone and Max the guy in charge of the verandah sees me long before I actually set foot in the door. I am not sure how he does it but he very seldom misses my arrival.

"Bonne soiree! " he says as usual. Don't believe he has a French accent. This is a deep Afrikaans accent with a Malmesbury variation locally called a bray, so his effusive greeting has a great deal of farce to it. I respond with

"Gooie naand meneer." in my Anglicised version of the Afrikaans accent which causes him to grin wickedly.

"Your table awaits you sir. It is a good thing you booked earlier. As you can see we are so busy tonight. You will be a bit crowded I am afraid but such are the costs of success, fame and fortune."

He bows me into a chair right at the far end of the balcony.

"Your usual I assume?"

I nod my thanks and Max heads off to harass his busy staff.

I ease myself onto my chair and take a moment to surreptitiously assess my neighbours in case I recognise someone (doubtful) or see a possible person to talk to (also doubtful).

I have swept almost the entire verandah when I find myself staring at a woman's back.

"Why," I hear you ask "are you staring at a woman's back? Is it naked or somehow remarkable?"

It is not the back so much as the blonde plait that hangs down the middle of her back and ends up in a puddle around her buttocks.

My first thought is of course completely obscene.

"What," I ask myself "does she do with all that hair when she is is on her back legs apart while some lucky man ploughs her furrow?"

I did warn you it was an obscene thought so don't complain now.

My beer arrives at this point and diverts my attention for a few moments. But the vexed question of the plait diverts me from my beer and the contemplation of the sunset which is now imminent.

I look back to where I saw the plait and find myself staring into a pair of violet eyes that I immediately started to drown in.

She is not young. Late forties and life has left its mark in the best possible way. Laugh lines dominate the landscape.

"You were right," she says in a slightly husky voice to her younger companion, "he was staring."

Then she smiles.

"I will leave it to your imagination what I do with my hair in bed!" She says to me. She laughs and turns away.

Now I may be a bit slow and forgetful but I am fairly confident that I did not voice my question.

"My imagination says that you will be enclosed in a silky golden halo of hair."

She looks back.

"Now that is a beautiful image. Poetic even. I may even allow you to see it."

"Mother!"

"Shoosh child. I am a grown woman and he is quite desirable."

She hands me a card. "Call me sometime."

And leaves before I have a reasonably polite retort.

I take a deep swallow of my beer and turn to watch the last of the sunset. As I do Max arrives with my second beer which is a tad premature, so I take a second swig and am in the process of swallowing when I hear:

"Once round you neck, twice over your breasts and the rest as a leash to keep you from galloping away with me. Now that is actually what you thought wasn't it?"

I swallow carefully and then look around. A tiny waif-like woman and a large, well built man are looking directly at me.

"Well? It was wasn't it? Cummon tell the truth."

The woman smiles with what can only be described as an evil leer.

"Well?"

I pause and think hard.

"If you are family and solicitous of her well being and safety, then no! Definitely not. However if the anklet you are wearing is not just for show, then yes that is a fairly accurate summation."

She smiles gently.

"What does my anklet mean to you?"

"That you may be into extra marital adventures and, I would imagine with your husband's approval. "

"He is a voyeur. He likes to watch me in action."

"And a bodyguard at the same time I would imagine?"

She shifts in her chair and I am treated to a generous look at her pantyless crotch. Completely bald. She obviously visits the beauty parlour regularly. That or hubby is given the rather pleasant task of shaving her. I feel my erection gently nudging at my leg, demanding space for expansion.

"We are very careful about the partners we choose." He says breaking in on the conversation. "And Max has given you a good rating. No pick ups, generous tipping and a friendly demeanour."

"Max knows all his regulars well I would imagine. As a good maitre'd should. I fear he may be lacking in discretion though."

He smiles at this.

"We have a table booked for dinner this evening. Would you care to join us?" she smiles provocatively.

I consider my options. I was considering going on the prowl at a sports bar just up the way from home. After a big game the place is usually pumping with adrenaline and other hormones so scoring is usually easy, but not guaranteed. Here I have what appears to be an easy score. I am erudite, engaging and thoroughly immoral. I smile.

"I am afraid I am not suavely enough dressed for dinner here."

"You will do just fine. Half the women on this balcony would kill to have you escort them into the restaurant. And you know it. Mrs Sanderson was just more direct that anyone else and you did give her an opening. Staring like that. Most indiscreet."

"Thank you. I would love to join you tonight. And yes, I was indiscreet, I do not want to become known as a predator. Not when all I am here for is to watch the sunset into that impossibly cold water."

"You appear to have broken all the rules this evening. Twice." The smile was evil, provocative, knowing.

I join them at their table and then accompany them into the restaurant.

They are excellent company, witty, intelligent and members of the fine art set that flourishes in Cape Town. Being what is called a "Sunday Painter" myself I skate on the peripheries of the art community, making sure to not to ever irritate the leading lights with my outspoken commentaries on modern art. For example I agree with Robert Hughes about Andy Warhol which does tend to raise hackles in the investing classes.

The point is however that I am on fairly good terms with some of the top artists because I am "useful". Be that as it may be, it turns out that we have acquaintances in common.

Unbeknownst to them I actually was a minor player in one of the more risqué stories they regaled me with. I acted shocked and scandalised as expected, mainly to maintain my anonymity but also to allow the woman to shine.

Roberta is the epitome of sensuality. She is easily aroused, her nipples responding eagerly to flirting, making verbal seduction easy and effective. John, her husband is amused by my gentle flirting.

"I think you've met your match Robbie." he says smirking.

"He is quite artful with his tongue. I do hope his tongue is as skilful when used for more sensual purposes."

I slide my tongue out, touch the tip of my nose and slide it back, Roberta's eyes widen.

"Jesus!" she whispers and shudders gently. "I know where I want that to go."

I look at John and he just smiles.

I look at Roberta, "You want that in you?"

"Yes!" she whispers again.

"A lot?"

"Yes."

"Its going to cost you."

"Anything!"

"You sure?"

"Yes."

I look at John and he is smiling, no smirking.

"Make her pay!"

"Touch yourself."

"What? Here?"

"Yes! Here. Softly, sensually, deliberately."

Her eyes sparkle with laughter.

"You are awfully daring with my modesty aren't you?"

"You don't have panties on as you were not afraid to show me publicly on the verandah."

Being the outrageous exhibitionist that she obviously is, she smiles and then puts a scarlet tipped index finger into her mouth and then moves it down under the table and I assume between her legs.

Her arm moves slowly back and forth stroking herself. After a few strokes her smile starts to fade, her breathing speeds up and she slowly clenches John's which is resting on the table between them.

She is saved from cumming by the arrival of the main course. While we eat we talk of art and other things that rich people talk about to disguise their emptiness.

They have a suite booked in the hotel to which we retire, our consciences soothed by liberal doses of alcohol.

"Before the main event I think we need to talk." John smiles one of those toothy, hypocritical smiles that aren't really smiles.

"About what?" I enquire politely noting that Roberta has retired to a deep armchair across the room from me. Her legs are firmly crossed and there is an air of withdrawal about her. Gone is temptress I flirted with on the verandah. Bait for a trap it would seem. Confirmed by the arrival of two heavies.

"About paintings. Specifically fake masters. Like this one."

He offers me his phone showing a small Van Gough. I study the painting with a bad feeling in my stomach. I look up at him.

"You believe this is a fake?"

"I know it is."

"Who told you it is a fake? It sold for a tidy sum last year. Caused a stir in the art market then. You calling it a forgery would make a lot of wealthy people very anxious and wealthy people who are anxious are not the best people to annoy."

"Brett Samaels says it's a forgery. And he said you painted it."

He hands me the phone again. Brett Samaels is shown, facing the camera. One nostril is cut open.

"He decided against having both nostrils sliced."

I like Brett. He is a good, semi honest man with a big family and a love of art. To see him damaged like this turns my stomach.

"Now you can have the same thing happen to you if you don't produce a Van Gough. for me."

"I have an almost complete Tretchikoff due to be delivered next week."

"It can wait. I want my Van Gough. By the end of the month."

"That's not really possible. Yes, I can produce a Van Gough. in that time, but it will look like a forgery and the provenance material will be lousy. You will be exposed in days."

"That is your problem. If I am exposed then you will be punished. Severely. As these gentlemen will demonstrate."

I took a beating from the two heavies. Not enough to incapacitate me, but enough for my body to hurt for days thereafter.

"Now get out of here and get forging."

====

A week later when I am moving more easily I park on a ill lit street in the suburbs and walk over the road to The Old Oak Tree pub. As a pub it is as far from the Tivoli as is reasonably possible to be. Not far in terms of distance but far in every other way.

The door is guarded by a huge man who, if he doesn't know you is most likely to refuse you entry or search you before allowing you in. His pistol is obvious from the cut of his jacket and a night stick is always close to hand. He barely gives me a nod as I walk in and sit down at the far end of the counter which is more than just a bit dim but it allows me to sink into relative obscurity.

The entire pub is dimly lit so it is difficult to asses the number of customers or their threat so I sit with my back to the wall smiling in a very non-threatening way. I am not particularly comfortable here but I have been here before and I do have a letter to deliver so I sit and I wait.

I know that the bar keep has seen me but he doesn't acknowledge me or come across. I wait, used to this sort of treatment and eventually he walks across to me.

"I'll have a Johnny Walker Red please, and one for you of course."

"Thank you."

The whisky appears and is placed on a larger than usual coaster. Under the coaster is an envelope which I surreptitiously pick up and put into an inner pocket. I take my time drinking whisky which is probably not Johnny Walker but I am not going to complain. When I am finished I leave the whisky glass and the coaster resting on top my own letter.

====

I open the envelope at home.

"Dear Mr Holmes,

(Johnny Rogers is always formal in his language and suspicious of anything digital)

Our dear friend Brett Samaels met with an unexpected and unwarranted attack on his person. He sensibly did not resist and gave the thugs the information they wanted.

I assume that you met with the same thugs at since then. I do hope you were not injured in the course of your "discussion" with them. My courier will tell me if you suffered any injury.

Needless to say I will exact vengeance on the perpetrators. For you to be out of the investigator's picture I strongly suggest you are out of town next weekend and very publicly visible.

As usual, please destroy this letter when you have read and understood it.

Please keep working on my Trechi I have a buyer ready and waiting. Do not change course. You will be safe.

Regards

Johnny Rogers"

I read the letter twice, took a flame to it and pondered my options for next weekend.

Me> "Hello Anne Sanderson of the long golden hair. I do hope you remember me. We met briefly the other evening at sunset. It was, I am told a glorious sight but I missed it while admiring your hair!

Andy Holmes.

Anne> Oh yes! I do remember you Andy and those naughty eyes of yours. Do tell me that you are going to gallop in on your charger and rescue me from my ennui!

Me> I am indeed. I won a weekend away at a sea front spa in the bustling metropolis of Arniston next weekend and I wondered if you could/would entrust yourself to me for the weekend?

Anne> Let me consult my over full diary. Only joking! Nothing can trump your invite! An added bonus is that it will annoy my daughter.

====

Anne is kneeling on a huge king sized bed, butt naked looking out the window of our suite at the silver white sands and azure sea visible through the window. I am behind her and have her long blonde plait in my hands and I am pumping my cock into her making her moan with each thrust.

"Ah! Fuck! Goddam! Don't stop!"

She slumps forward onto the bed with me still in her and I am left to keep us both going till we cum together.

"You know you are very good! Practised bastard! It a power thing isn't it? You fuck a woman so well she cannot find anyone to replace you! Fuck! That was good."

"Of course! You are completely correct!"

I slap her gently on the backside which causes her to turn her head around and growl at me.

"Do not even think about that! I do not like pain."

What can a man do but whisper sorry and kiss the affected cheek.

"Cummon! Lets go laze around the pool. I bought a new costume especially for this trip."

As we lie in the early autumn sunlight drinking white wine I realize that Anne is the epitome of standing out in a crowd. Her long plait and the new costume that scarcely covers her ample body make us stand out among the younger, beautiful set.

No one, I think to myself will forget us. We will be the talk to the town for months. I vaguely wonder if any of the other guests here assembled watch the sunset from the Tivoli's verandah. Mind you, I won't forget this weekend easily either. Anne and I have somehow clicked and I am now beginning to worry about how she will react to my forgery activities if this relationship goes very much further.

====

"You know?" Anne breaking the silence as we drive home "I could get used to having you around."

I think about the weekend we have shared together, I remember the walk on the moonlit beach, her hand in mine, the urgent sex when we got back to our suite and I nod. I stop at the first pull off, take her in my arms and kiss her.

"I have already gotten used to it."

She laughs at that and lays her hand on my already hardening cock.

"Good! Done deal. But you are not going to fuck me here on the side of a freeway in the open! Let's get home to wherever home may be and you can do it there."

After a while Anne breaks the silence.

"Shall we go to your home or mine?"

"Up to you really."

"My daughter will be at home and is furious about my taking off with a "total stranger" for a whole weekend. She became quite hysterical about it. So maybe your home is best."

Minutes later.

"You know that Van Gough that was sold recently?"

I nod having had this conversation just recently to my detriment.

"I think it is a forgery."

Oops!

"What makes you think it is a forgery?"

"Well, I was at that auction and I have a very good eye for details especially paintings. Aside from the fact that I have never heard or seen mention of the painting before what worried me about it was that it was painted by a left handed painter and Van Gough was right handed."

I nod carefully.

"I saw you chatting to John and Roberta on the Tivoli's verandah and John is such an avid collector. I wondered about your connection to them so I asked about you and found that you were a talented "Sunday Painter" who was peripherally part of the art world. And I noticed this weekend that you are left handed. Such a coincidence. You aren't hiding something are you? Like a lucrative forgery business? If you are, we may make a very good team."

We arrive at my home, and I usher inside.

"There is something you need to see before we go any further."

I take her into my studio where the incomplete Trechi is still on the easel. She stands in front of it unmoving for a long while.

"You are very good. It is just that left hand that betrays you. Thank you for trusting me."

She takes me in her arms and kisses me.

"Now you can take me to bed and make the bedsprings creak."

====

Afternoon. Time for a beer on the verandah of my favourite pub.

"Bonne soiree!" Max says as I walk onto the veranda.

"Gooie naand meneer."

"Madam Anne awaits you at your table."

And he guides me towards where Anne is sitting but before we get there he stops me.

"You remember Madam Roberta and Mr John? You had dinner with them last you were here! A tragic accident happened. Their car rolled off the cliffs on Victoria Drive late last Saturday night. The car burnt them up completely! Such a beautiful woman. Such a terrible loss."

"Thank you Max. That is awful news. A terrible tragedy." Which prompts the thought in my mind that Max may not only be the maitre'd at the Tivoli but also a look out and courier for someone and that The Old Oak Tree pub is just a gentle reminder of whom I am working for.

I sit down next to Anne and we hold hands as we watch the sun set into the sea.